


Losing It, In Fact

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-25
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes had always had a difficult relationship with food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing It, In Fact

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "experimental: whipped cream" square on my kissbingo card.
> 
> Set after the end of The Great Game; spoilers for that and (if you squint) for A Study in Pink
> 
> Thanks to blooms84 for the beta; this is for her and for et_cetera55, whose brain-meltingly NC-17 fic Obedience first introduced me to this pairing.

Mycroft Holmes had always had a difficult relationship with food.

Well, _always_ might be an exaggeration. Since childhood, let's say, for the sake of accuracy. Mycroft preferred to be accurate.

A dislike of physical activity, a tendency to sit with his nose in a book for hours on end, and a hopeless weakness for Mrs Banks's cooking had all played a part in making Mycroft the kind of fat boy school bullies loved to pick on. Luckily for him he'd also been an unusually clever boy with a way of making nasty things happen to his enemies. Otherwise life would have been even worse.

But even Mycroft's cleverness couldn't defeat Mummy when she decided being the mother of a fat son wasn't a good look for her. At nine years old, Mycroft was dragged to the family GP, _talked about_ as if he wasn't in the room at all, and then put on a diet consisting largely of ghastly non-foods: starch-reduced rolls that seemed to be made of fibreglass, crispbreads so dry they made his throat close up, revolting _milk jellies_ (because children need calcium to help their growing bones). He still had nightmares about the diet sheet years later, and occasionally fantasised about tracking down the author and choking him to death with its contents.

The grim years of Mycroft's adolescence were made worse – how could they not be? – by the constant seesawing of his weight, as one diet after another succeeded for a time and then failed. These days the fluctuations were less rapid and dramatic, but Mycroft's weight problem still persisted, as Sherlock never tired of reminding him.

Mycroft had been on his latest diet for four months now, and his medical advisors had stopped looking quite so ashen-faced about his blood pressure. He could get into trousers that had been lurking at the back of his wardrobe for _years_ , and he was aware of being fitter, moving more easily. He'd even begun to think a bit more positively about the possibility of physical exercise.

One kind of physical exercise in particular.

Preferably involving Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It was Sherlock, ironically, who'd brought Mycroft and Lestrade together. They'd met in the hospital after that explosion at the pool, waiting to hear if Sherlock was going to pull through, and trying to support John Watson as he waited too. It had been a slow process, which left all of them drained, but Mycroft had found himself increasingly looking forward to his encounters with Lestrade, trying not to stare too openly at Lestrade's beautiful mouth and throat as he drank the vile hospital coffee. Even passing the hospital gave him an odd sort of thrill, weeks after Sherlock had finally been allowed home.

Mycroft knew he wanted something to happen with Lestrade, but he had no idea how to bring it about. He had very little experience of asking anyone out – he'd always been far too self-conscious about his body for that. And he thought Lestrade probably had him filed under Pompous Twit or possibly Interfering Bureaucrat, rather than Potential Boyfriend.

But here they were, on a fine summer's day, in the same place at last. By a happy coincidence – or what would have been a happy coincidence if Mycroft hadn't studied the surveillance footage of Lestrade's daily and weekly routine quite so carefully for quite so long. Sitting at a café in Regent's Park, Lestrade rather sweaty after his run, and Mycroft in his cool linen suit, trying not to get sweaty himself thinking about Lestrade.

Mycroft knew he was staring at Lestrade's muscular legs, couldn't help it, but looking at Lestrade's arms or his chest or his face – oh God, his _face_ – really wasn't any better. Every bit of the man was perfect. Mouth-wateringly so.

Mycroft swallowed hard and reached for his uninteresting glass; the diet was very firm about not drinking anything but water with a slice of lemon between meals. Lestrade raised his own glass of iced coffee ( _the colour of his eyes_ , Mycroft thought wildly) and said “Cheers.”

“Coffee's bad for you after a run,” Mycroft said fussily, hating himself the minute he'd said it.

But Lestrade didn't seem to mind. He grinned and said “I know. Specially with whipped cream on top. Just couldn't resist it though. You know how it is when you really _fancy_ something. Nothing else quite hits the spot.”

Mycroft knew how it was.

“You've got some cream on your top lip,” he pointed out squeakily.

“Thanks,” Lestrade said, wiping it away. He took another mouthful of coffee and cream and looked at Mycroft, who was staring, transfixed.

It had happened again.

Whipped cream on Lestrade's mouth. Mycroft wanted to kiss Lestrade, wanted to lick the cream right off him, wanted to taste the coffee on his tongue and in his throat. Wanted it so badly he thought he might faint. He couldn't hide the greedy desire that must be showing in his face, any more than he could hide the erection now spoiling the line of his Savile Row tailoring.

Any minute now Lestrade would tell him to _stop perving and piss off_ , or some such phrase. He waited for the blow to fall.

But Lestrade didn't say anything. Didn't look disgusted, or shocked. More as if he was working something out. And going a bit pink, actually, which was surprising but rather pleasant.

“Have I done it again?” he asked. “The whipped cream thing?”

Mycroft nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Lestrade went on looking at him. Still blushing.

“Are you going to help me out with that?” he asked.

Mycroft tried to say _What do you mean?_ , but all that came out was a squeak. Lestrade sighed.

“Come here, you,” he said, standing up and pulling Mycroft out of his chair.

Mycroft didn't argue. He let Lestrade pull him close, till their faces were almost touching. _Any minute now I'm going to wake up_ , Mycroft told himself, _but please not yet_. Shaking with desire, he ran his tongue across Lestrade's top lip, tasting the sweetness of the whipped cream cut with the salt of Lestrade's sweat. He slipped his tongue into Lestrade's open mouth and Lestrade kissed him back, a delicious melting kiss that made Mycroft buckle at the knees.

Mycroft kissed Lestrade hungrily, desperately, not caring for once who might be watching, or how ridiculous or unattractive he must appear. There was only his mouth, wanting, and this man who tasted of sweetness and salt like the best thing Mycroft had ever eaten.

Lestrade groaned, pulling away from the kiss. “Can we go back to my place?” he said. “Or your place? I don't mind which, but if you go on kissing me like that I'm going to have to shag you here and now and we're both going to be had up for gross indecency.”

“My flat is closer,” Mycroft said, panting.

“Good,” Lestrade said. “But we need to stop off at a supermarket or somewhere on the way.”

Mycroft moaned faintly. “What for?”

“More whipped cream,” Lestrade said, with a wicked glint that made Mycroft feel dizzy. “Think we might find a use for it.”

“I'm on a diet,” Mycroft protested feebly.

“ _I_ could lick it off _you_ if you're worried about the calories,” Lestrade said. _Oh good Lord_. “But you're a nice shape,” Lestrade added, brushing his hands against Mycroft's waist.

Mycroft's legs were shaking. He wasn't sure how he was going to get out of the park if Lestrade did that again.

“I need to be a bit careful myself,” Lestrade said ruefully, patting his stomach in a way that made Mycroft's fingers itch to follow suit. “But there are days for sticking to a diet and days where you just want to blow it.”

Mycroft giggled.

Lestrade looked at him and grinned. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get out of here before the Tory lady over there decides to call the police. Otherwise I'll have to arrest myself and that could get complicated.”

Mycroft had a sudden and very vivid image of Lestrade wearing nothing but handcuffs and some strategically placed whipped cream. He whimpered, and Lestrade snorted with amusement, for all the world as if he'd read Mycroft's mind. Moving rather unsteadily, and somewhat hampered by giggling, the two men set off rapidly towards the park gates.


End file.
